


Somewhere to Belong

by AndInThoseMoments



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Drug Addiction, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Promiscuity, Rejection, Self-Destruction, ostracised
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-23 01:27:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 21,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/616553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndInThoseMoments/pseuds/AndInThoseMoments
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since coming to SHIELD, Clint has built himself up a reputation that he might not like, but which at least stops him being alone.  He's sure there's meant to be more to life than pills and bed hopping, but he doesn't know where to even begin to look.  </p>
<p>When he's assigned a new handler, things start to change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Status Quo

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: angst, drug addiction, self-destruction, promiscuity, being rejected and ostracised. 
> 
> If there's anything else I should warn for, please let me know.

Clint curled up in his latest nest, his head down. He felt sick, but he tried to ignore that. Clint might have been childish at points, but he was a very long way from naive. He was aware of what the muttering that followed him everywhere was about, understood why people stared and laughed at him.

He didn't belong here. He didn't belong anywhere. If he tried, hard enough, he could remember times at the circus where he had felt like he had a place, had felt like he belonged. Not around the other performers, but on his own in the big top, with the bow in his hand and arrows sat on the table beside him, the steady rhythm of his movements, well, that had felt like belonging.

SHIELD didn't. SHIELD felt like hatred, and disgust, and whispers. SHIELD was the constant knowledge that he wasn't good enough, wasn't smart enough, and it dug into him. Because he couldn't avoid the fact it was true. He hadn't finished school, let alone anything later, smarter. He was surrounded by people with degrees and PHDs, and he hadn't even finished high school. Worse, and making him feel sick to even think about it, was the fact that when he had been at school, he had been bad at it. Not just bad, not just struggling, but utterly useless, stupid. He attacked himself with that knowledge, letting it bury down inside his heart, leaving him feeling worthless. He couldn't even read right - he could manage simple words, it just took a while to get there. The SHIELD psych team had said a few words about it, when he had had an evaluation, but that was all that had happened. Apparently they weren't that bothered about it until it started affecting his work.

He wasn't entirely useless. He had some talents, things he had learned, things he had found he was good at. But the problem was, those skills didn't exactly make him a better person. He could shoot, and he was good at that, and he was apparently pretty awesome in bed. But his colleagues all ignored him, aside from when they were bored, or drunk, or lonely, and he'd find notes in his locker, giving him room numbers to go to. 

It wasn't orders. Some of the requests had been from senior officers, but he could walk away from those as easily as from the other rookies. They were just suggestions, things that he could do.

Anything felt better than that empty room, the standard equipment and the packet of pills on the bedside cabinet. The pills made him feel sick, made him feel empty, but they were so much better than the alternative. They made everything quiet, stopped the sadness and pain inside him from consuming him. Without the pills, he didn't think he could have gone on with what he was doing. He would have spiralled down into darkness like he had before. So they were good for him. 

It was late in the evening, and he should have eaten, but he didn't feel hungry. He headed from his perch to his room, using the vents, and dropped down into his bedroom, picking up the packet of pills from his bedside table, popping out one and swallowing it dry. Medication taken, he made his way to his locker, hoping he wouldn't have to spend another night alone.

Even if they ended up laughing at him, even if it gave another reason for him to be hated, he felt that it was worth it. People might have refused to work with him, handlers rejected him, but he was alright with that. After all, they had enough to make fun of him for already, one more thing wouldn't make that much of a difference. He had to take comfort where he could find it, and this was one of those ways.

So as he raised a trembling hand to fit a key in a battered lock, he hoped there would be a note shoved inside, another place he could go, another bed that would offer comfort for tonight, if not for long. Today, there was nothing.

He thought about going back to his room, but he couldn't face that. Anything would be better than that. So he returned to his perch, curling up on top of a heating pipe and closing his eyes, finding comfort in the warmth there. As he lay down on it, jacket draped over himself, he wondered if he could make this into a room here - if he could bring up a blanket and make himself comfortable. Maybe that might feel like belonging.

He fell into a doze as he lay there, his body relaxed. He knew he wouldn't fall off - he had never fallen before, and had slept on much narrower ledges in the past. The warmth felt almost safe. He let himself fall into unconsciousness, and was grateful when this time there were no dreams.

"Agent Barton?"  
He jerked awake in shock, looking down to see Agent Coulson standing beneath him. He hadn't expected that. He knew he wouldn't have been stupid enough to let a limb be visible from the ground, so Coulson had found him on his own, without hints.

Clint sat up and stared down at the handler, dropping from the vent and landing on the floor in a crouched position, before standing.  
"Feeling okay sir?" He asked, the last word managing to convey a complete lack of respect. He wasn't dumb enough to pretend that there could have been more than one reason the handler would have come to find him now.

"Yes, thank you Agent Barton. Yourself?"  
"I'm great." He lied, and was surprised at how easy those words came to him. Coulson fixed him with a skeptical look, but then turned and walked away, leaving Clint standing there alone and confused. He wasn't sure what could have caused Coulson to come and look for him.


	2. New Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint can't sleep, and is waiting for his new handler.

Clint couldn't face sleep again after Coulson had woken him, so he just laid down on top of the pipe, eyes fixed on the cracks of the ceiling. He knew these well, this was one of his favourite perches.

The vicious circle he was trapped in circled around his head on repeat, accusing him, pointing out his failings. He couldn't read, and he was stupid, so he would never be wanted here. That knowledge meant a sadness built up inside him to the point where he couldn't think about anything else, and medical had given him tablets to help with that. The tablets did their job, but they meant that he had a deep emptiness inside him instead of the sadness. He tried to fix that emptiness by bed hopping, and that meant he was wanted even less. 

He sighed softly, knowing he was messed up. He wondered whether it was going to get to the point where SHIELD just threw him out. He screwed his eyes up slightly at the thoughts of post-SHIELD life. He couldn't shoot to kill, wouldn't be allowed to function as an assassin without SHIELD's guidance. So he would perform, either as an archer, in another circus, or use his other skills. Neither of those felt like a good life, but what else could he do?

He couldn't sleep here. Not right now, knowing Coulson had come to get him, and had changed his mind. He ran over the interaction in his head. He couldn't think of anything he'd done wrong - well, he'd lied and made it clear he didn't want to see Coulson, but he did that to everyone so it didn't count. Coulson would have been expecting it, and he had still walked away.

No one wanted to see Clint tonight, and it was still a good few hours before most people came on shift. It was a good time to wander around the base, to try and make sure you remembered escape routes, knew where everything was and where everyone should be. So he could take a walk. He let himself drop down to the ground once more, standing in the corridor. 

The air vents were more tempting, because he didn't have people looking at him, didn't have to worry about what they thought of him, but he couldn't do that always. Especially not when he wasn't even meant to be on the floor with the Handlers’ offices in unless he was called. 

Clint doubted that "I decided to compromise by walking rather than going through the vents" was going to count as an excuse if he was challenged, but it was something. And no one was in the corridors aside from the occasional guard who let him past if he looked confident enough, so that wasn't a problem. He just walked along to Coulson's office, holding up his hand to knock on the door.

Uncertainty rocked through him, and he wondered whether it would be a waste of this man's time. But no, Coulson might have expected him to follow. He knocked smartly, his head up, determined to meet the older man's gaze.

The door creaked open.  
"What is it Barton?" Coulson asked, looking distinctly tired. Clint frowned, realising after thinking about it that it was kind of odd that Coulson was even in his office.  
"Wondered if you needed anything?"  
"I'm fine Barton. I was... I was asleep. Did... did you just wake me up to ask if I needed anything, when the only thing I need is sleep?" Coulson seemed irritated, and when it was phrased like that, Clint could see why.

Clint felt his eyes sting slightly, and held back those tears by glaring up at him.  
"Yes sir. You woke me up earlier, I was just paying back the favour."

"Barton. Go to bed. I was in bed. You were on a vent." With that, the door shut in his face. Clint turned and stormed away, making his way back to the locker, checking once more. No one had asked for him yet, and he didn't have anyone's number to call. He'd have woken up one of the other rookies, but they never wanted him to interrupt without permission, so he returned to his room, staring at the box of pills. 

He wished they were sedatives or something. He wondered if he took enough of them, it would mean that the emptiness drowned out himself entirely. He picked up the box, turning it over in his hands, sliding the packet out to look at it closer. Then he threw it in his drawer and slammed it closed. No. He'd meet his new handler in the morning, he couldn't be sick for that. He laid down on his bed, on top of the sheets, still in uniform, and stared once more at the ceiling.

The alarm sounded, bringing him back to consciousness, only a couple of hours later. His head hurt, and he stretched, trying to relax. He checked his alarm. He had an hour before the meeting. He pushed the button to stop the noise that was blaring out, and got to his feet, walking through to shower.

He washed quickly, standing under the hot water and feeling the slight sting on his skin. Then, when he was clean, he decided to dress. He stumbled back to his bedroom, dropping the towel to the floor and pulling on his uniform. He stretched, regarding himself in the mirror.

The man that stared back at him was certainly not describable as neat, or tidy, but he was passable. This would do well enough for now. It was just another new handler, and judging by the last few he had been assigned, this new guy wasn't going to stick around for long. There was no need to make a good impression.

He made his way to Coulson's office, having checked his messages to find out where he was meant to go.  
"This is just great." He muttered under his breath, scuffing his shoes against the floor. "You piss the guy off when he's in charge of assigning you a new handler. Real smart Barton. You want to get yourself thrown out of SHIELD?" He hissed the words, remembering what the doctor had said in that meeting. Self-destructive behaviour had been mentioned. 

Still, Coulson might have been a lot of things, but he didn't seem involved enough in the inner politics of SHIELD to assign someone to a bad handler as a punishment just for waking them up. That was what Clint told himself as he knocked on the door.

"Come in Agent Barton." 

Clint didn't hesitate to push open the door, knowing that holding back now would have just made him look stupid. Coulson's eyes met his, and Clint was surprised it was just the two of them. He wondered if his new handler had overslept, or even blown off the meeting entirely. It wouldn't have surprised him if they had something better to do than deal with the likes of him, when they probably wouldn't even be working together for that long.

"Sir." He answered Coulson with a respect he didn't normally show - he had no intent of getting himself into worse trouble. He tried to ignore the ball of fear which was lodged deep in his stomach. "My handler running late?"  
"Your handler is here." Coulson answered, fiddling with some paperwork on his desk. "I've decided to take you on, on a probationary basis, at least until we find you someone you can work with."

Clint felt unnerved by that. He was difficult enough they were changing the rules for him, that couldn't be good.  
"Coulson." He agreed, nodding his head, and tensing as the handler held out a pile of forms towards him, paperwork to confirm the transfer. He took the sheets, staring at the words, sounding them out slowly and ignoring the letters that seemed to dance.

The look that Coulson was giving him rapidly passed from surprise to confusion to something that was related to pity. Clint glared at him, continuing to work out the letters, and then grabbing the pen and scrawling his name at the right spot.  
"Do you need to work on your reading there Clint?" Coulson asked gently, but Clint was not in the mood. He shook his head, putting the paper down.

"It doesn't get in the way of my work sir."  
"I know, I just thought it might-" Coulson's explanation was cut off by the noise of his phone, and he answered it when he saw the number.   
"I see....yes okay... just give me a moment." He turned to Clint. "Sorry, this is private."

Clint nodded, removing himself from the room, trying to get his head around the fact that his new handler was the senior agent he'd managed to annoy the previous night. On the one hand, it felt like a cause for concern. On the other he was sure he wouldn't stay his handler for long.

 

He pushed open his locker, and was met with a better sight than he had seen for the last few days. Resting among varying packets of crisps and half-eaten and then forgotten sandwiches was a scrawled telephone number, a name above it.


	3. Old Ways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint goes to see a friend and waits for Coulson to get in touch.
> 
> Warnings: There is a sex scene in this chapter between Clint and an OMC. It is consensual, but from Clint's perspective is mainly driven by his need to be wanted.

He examined the paper, reading over the name - a name he knew from previous occasions, another SHIELD rookie. Clint smiled more brightly than he had done in days, and pulled out his phone to dial Agent Grant.  
"Grant." The voice on the other end of the phone answered after eight rings, and Clint felt the relief sweeping through him. He had assumed by then that he wasn't going to answer, that Grant might have been busy, or worse have changed his mind. But no, there was an answer.

"You want to see me later?" Clint asked, trying to sound casual about the entire thing. As though he didn't mind what the answer was. They both knew that he minded, but he had to do what he could to keep his head together, to make sure that he stayed sane. Sometimes that meant trying to pretend he still had dignity.

"Sure. I'm free all afternoon. You?"  
"Should be. Got a new handler, but I think they're busy, so I'm basically free. Should I come over now?"  
"Sure. Bring coffee." Grant sounded bored, which he probably was.

"Yeh, okay." Clint answered, taking a deep breath and ending the call. He liked Grant, as much as he liked any of the other agents here. He never worried that much about his safety - after all, SHIELD did basic psych evaluations and they tended to weed out anyone with psychopathic tendencies. Well, weed out or promote, but that was an entire other issue. And Grant was just another rookie, so it wasn't a concern. He grabbed a couple of coffees and headed to the other agent's room.

It wasn't a great room, but Grant had no roommate, meaning it was private, and that was all that mattered. Grant opened the door, a blond man a couple of years older than Clint, thinner, and with sharp grey eyes and that knowing smile that so many of the agents seemed to possess. They sat on his bed, and sipped their coffees. The silence between them wasn't awkward, it was just present. They never spoke much. This wasn't about talking, never was from Clint's perspective. 

For him, what it was about was contact. A chance to feel that he might belong, even just for a moment. Clint was almost shaking as he waited for it to start, waited to be touched, waited for that simple physical contact that he would have done anything for. For Grant it was a quick and cheap way to get off. Clint had overheard him saying once that “Barton has more experience than a hooker and is cheaper”. But Clint didn’t mind that.

"You're not staying over tonight Barton." Grant told him. "I've got a girl coming."  
Clint nodded, not arguing, accepting it. Of course Grant had a girlfriend. Grant was a proper agent, fitted in here. He probably even had a first name, one that people used. 

Clint had stayed over once, and that hadn't been particularly good. Grant stole all of the quilt, and when he was asleep he turned into elbows and knees, punches hard enough to throw you from the bed. Clint had decided he didn't want to stay over again, but knew he would have accepted the offer every time it was made. It just wasn’t made. 

He fought back the voice in the back of his head that was telling him just how very pathetic he was. It wasn't helpful right now. He finished his coffee, and just played with the cooling cardboard cup as he waited for Grant to finish his. He threw the empties into the bin with perfect accuracy, mentally counting down in his head. Grant checked his emails, and Clint glanced at his phone, in case the whatever-it-is that had distracted Coulson had ended. There were no messages for either of them.

He made his way over to him, sitting beside him, trying to stop his pulse from racing, but when Grant’s hand grabbed his hip he gave in to simple animalistic desires, practically tearing Grant’s shirt as he fought to get him out of it.  
"Careful Barton. That’s expensive." The blond moved away slightly, and removed the shirt himself, and Clint swallowed, but he hadn't been sent away, so that was good. He hadn’t messed up too bad. He stripped slowly, giving the other agent a show. He moved closer to Grant when the clothing was safely thrown around the floor, hands running up Grant’s sides as Grant ran a finger the length of his spine, earning a shiver of pleasure. 

Clint opened his mouth, running his tongue over the two digits that were pressed inside, sucking on them and moaning softly in pleasure, rocking slightly against Grant’s hip. It felt like his hands were everywhere, warm and alive and real.  
"Condom." Grant muttered, and Clint nodded, slipping away from the touch to grab out the packet, opening it and handing it over. He understood that Grant didn't want to risk anything, respected that, so it wasn't a problem. He let his head fall back as the fingers slid inside him, to be replaced by Grant’s cock a moment later.

He clenched around him, rocking back and letting out soft gasps at each movement, trying to make sure it was good for Grant, that he would choose to do it again. Clint's hand snuck down his chest, and his fingers wrapped around his length. He pumped himself as he moved with Grant, focussing on the sensation of heat from Grant body. He could feel need building in his stomach.

Grant climaxed suddenly with a cry, and it took Clint another few strokes of his hand before he followed him, sinking back against his body in a soft haze of pleasure. Grant pushed him away.  
"Out. I need to shower."

Clint nodded. He didn't want to wait here for the shower to be free, not when he knew he'd been dismissed. So instead he got up, pulled his clothing back and walked back to his room, then undressed and turned on his own shower, keeping the water hot but not hot enough to cause any damage. He curled up under the spray, and closed his eyes, taking slow breaths. He'd been hoping he would have been able to stay a little longer. But it was something. His existence hadn't been forgotten. Not by Grant at least.

Coulson, he realised as he turned off the shower and checked his phone, was an entirely different matter. The agent hadn't bothered to contact him since earlier, so either he was busy or something else was more deserving of his time. Clint picked up one of his pills on the way past, swallowing it dry. 

He felt emptier than he had before the meeting, which wasn’t good. He needed the contact, the sense of being full, of having meaning, to keep him sane. If he wasn’t getting that from sex, he was going to struggle. He doubted he would be able to rest any better tonight than he had the night before.

There were several hours before he was even meant to sleep, so he decided to make the most of the time, heading to the range. He couldn’t let that slip, and he was fairly sure that occasionally throwing cups at bins didn’t count as target practice. 

The weight of a gun in his hand was reassuringly familiar, a silent promise that he could actually manage something, even if it wasn't worth much. He would have preferred a bow, but this was enough. The shots continued, and as long as he hit the centre of the target, he could stop himself from lingering on the fact that he had been kicked out when he had served his purpose, as always.

Hitting targets was something that he could do. He might get thrown in the trash with the used condom - Grant didn't want to risk catching something - but Barton could hit targets. It might not be much, but much more than nothing. He fired, another shot split the air, and he felt himself relaxing into the rhythm of it.

He was so focussed on his work he didn't hear the footsteps behind him, wasn't aware of anything until Coulson's voice spoke beside his ear.   
"Thought I'd find you here."


	4. Simple Test

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint has an assessment on his reading and gets an offer for help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deals with dyslexia, as Clint has his reading assessment.

Clint didn't jump at the voice in his ear. Didn't shout, or turn towards the source of the noise. He didn't even twitch. That had all already been trained out of him in basic training, according to SHIELD. The truth was simpler: knowing that eating depended on you making shots in front of dozens of screaming children meant you had to stay in control whatever happened. 

So he fired off another shot, and then lowered the gun, turning to face the older agent, reminding himself that this was his handler now, and he had to play nice.  
"Yes sir?"  
"We need to talk Barton."

Clint never normally went along with orders, but he was still able to pick his fights, and one look at Coulson's face told him that this wasn't a fight he was going to win.  
"Sir."   
"Come with me." Coulson turned and walked out of the range, and Clint found himself following before he had even thought about it, which wasn't something that was particularly reassuring. He only stopped to sign himself out, because it was bad enough without getting in trouble for breaking regulation. 

Clint followed Coulson as they trailed through SHIELD's ever busy corridors, eventually ending up in the Handlers' corridor, and making their way into Coulson's office. Clint sat down when he was told to, and Coulson took his place at the other side of the desk.

"I am sorry about what happened earlier." Coulson said as an opening line, and Clint knew that that was a lie - Coulson had to work, and it was more important than he was.  
"Don't worry about it." Clint reassured with a smile.  
"Anyway, the paperwork for the transfer was fine. That's not what I called you here to talk about."

Clint tensed at that, already trying to guess what he had been called here to talk about. Hopefully the fact he was slowly sleeping around most of SHIELD. Hopefully not the fact the paperwork had taken far more effort than it should have done.

"Alright..."  
"It's clear you were struggling with the paperwork Clint. From your file it's obvious that you didn't have much in the way of a formal education, and it seems you struggled even in school. There is little point in you continuing to struggle this way."

Clint can feel himself tensing up, getting angry at that. Because he worked damn hard to get where he was, and the fact he was stupid, that he couldn't read well, shouldn't have affected it.  
"So what, I fix it or I get kicked out?" He practically spat the words, everything he had told himself earlier about behaving well getting thrown out of the window by his sheer anger and hurt at what Coulson was implying.

Coulson's response was slow, measured, gentle even.  
"No, just that we fix it. There's no or, no threat that happens if you don't manage. Because we are going to get this better. I've arranged for an assessment of your literacy levels tomorrow morning. You will report here at 0800. Go and get some sleep."

Clint nodded smartly, and left, heading to his room, falling on the bed having kicked off his shoes, still in his uniform. Coulson's words kept running around his head. There was no point in him continuing to struggle, continuing to try. He clearly wasn't good enough. 

The knowledge of the test the next day loomed large in his mind, but he couldn't manage to relax enough to get some sleep.

He stumbled out of bed the next morning with a headache, the skin around his eyes dark. He fumbled for one of his pills, and grabbed a glass of water this time to drink it with. Today, he deserved a drink, even if it was just water. 

A quick shower, and scrubbing his hands through his hair, and he looked nearly human. Close enough to pass in SHIELD anyway. He made his way to Coulson's office, arriving there at five minutes past eight. He knocked on the door.

"Come in." Coulson called, and when Clint ventured inside he was met with one of Coulson's smiles, and that was all. No muttering about the fact he was unreliable, that he couldn't be trusted. No acknowledgement of the fact he had missed the time he had been told.   
"Did you sleep well Barton?"

Clint nodded once, not wanting to say the truth, and whilst Coulson couldn't have believed him he at least did Clint the decency of not saying so.   
"Good." Coulson stood. "I'll take you to Doctor Sinclaire now."  
Clint nodded once more, wondering when exactly he'd started playing the role of the good little soldier so easily. He trailed behind Coulson, through various corridors, always keeping track of where he was. He could make his way through these corridors and the vents between them blindfolded, so at least he knew his location. 

They ended up near the research labs, which was quite high up on the list of places that Clint would rather avoid being near if it wasn't necessary. He didn't believe the rumours about junior agents going missing down here, but it was still a gamble he'd rather not have taken when he knew he was expendable. 

Doctor Sinclaire, when Coulson introduced her, turned out to be a kind faced woman with soft mahogany skin and brilliantly white teeth. She looked up at Clint, and nodded at Coulson, leaving Clint certain that they had spoken about him before.

"So... you're agent Barton? Please take a seat." She gestured, and Clint sat down, feeling himself tense. Coulson was stood nearby.  
"Is that all Doctor Sinclaire?"  
"Yes... it will take about an hour."

"I'll be back at the end Barton." Coulson informed him, and then walked away, leaving Clint feeling very alone.

Doctor Sinclaire was a lovely woman, Clint decided as he watched her. She talked to him patiently, explaining what was happening, and whilst he knew she probably thought he was stupid, she didn't tell him that. She sat with him, and handed him pieces of paper, with sentences on.   
"Can you try and read that for me Agent Barton?"  
He started to sound out the words, covering the other letters with his fingertips. It helped a little. After a few minutes, she took the paper away, and replaced it with another one. The words here were shorter, and Clint knew he should have been offended, knew this meant he was failing this little test, but he was just glad that this was easier than before.

Questions kept coming, and then he had to write out some words that were there. He did his best, but Doctor Sinclaire drew her lips together, and he realised he'd probably made a mistake, but he couldn't see where.

"Okay... thank you Agent Barton." She spoke patiently still, then tapped one manicured finger on one of the letter e's. "Does that look odd at all to you?"  
He shook his head, and she smiled softly. "Alright, thank you..." She traced a finger over that e, and then another, and with a sinking feeling Clint realised exactly what was wrong. It was backwards.

He felt himself turning red. It was backwards. Yes, he was an idiot, he knew that, but Coulson had done this to try and help, and he'd managed to mess up spectacularly. He didn't want to do anything else. He nearly stopped answering questions, and only the knowledge that surviving this humiliation was his only chance at staying in SHIELD made him keep talking. 

There were some maths questions after that, which helped. Clint understood maths, could do a lot of it in his head. The numbers stayed where they were meant to, which was an added bonus. 

"I want you to try these Agent Barton..." Doctor Sinclaire held up a sheet of translucent plastic, in rainbow stripes. "I'm going to put it over the paper, and you have to try and read the words, okay?"

He nodded, and she put it down. He started at red, then through orange, yellow, green, blue, all of them difficult. Then he got to purple, and whilst it was still hard, it was easier than before - the letters didn't move so much, and the headache that had been building eased a little.  
"Well done." She smiled at him, and for a moment Clint felt a bloom of pride. Then he reminded himself that children could do this better than he could, and that feeling left. It wasn't much longer until Coulson returned.

Coulson and Doctor Sinclaire spoke together, with Clint stood next to them. He guessed he probably could have joined in the conversation, but he wasn't really listening. They were talking about him, and he was used to that. 

"Barton?" Coulson's voice called him back to reality. "Doctor Sinclaire has given you this..." He held up a piece of the same purple plastic he had used before. "It will help with your reading, a little, and I will help you practice."

Clint nearly jumped at that, shocked at the offer. He couldn't quite hide the smile that threatened at those words.   
"Thank you sir."  
"It's alright Barton. Just doing my job."

Clint nodded, wondering why he ever could have thought it was anything else. Coulson was a good handler, and this was just what was needed for him to be useful. He wasn’t special. He shouldn’t have thought for even a second that he was. Coulson smiled at him then, and Clint made himself return the expression, no feeling in it now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plastic filters helping with dyslexia is something that has been found to work, and which has helped me, but does not work for everyone. It seemed to fit in with this fic. Clint's reading isn't going to be magically fixed, but he at least stands a better chance now that the letters are staying mostly in one place.


	5. Waiting Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint finds himself captured and remembers what Coulson has done for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Canon appropriate violence, and non-graphic mentions of torture.

In his mind, Clint was sat at the desk in Coulson's office where he had been the previous day, his head down, staring at the piece of paper the other man had given him, holding the purple filter in front of it.

"Mission...report..." He was sounding it slowly, but he was getting words, and Coulson was smiling over at him. The filter made things easier than they had been before, and Coulson was listening.  
"You're doing well Barton." There was no sarcasm in his voice, no criticism, just the endless patience that Coulson could show sometimes. That patience normally angered Clint, but right at this moment he was grateful for it.

Coulson was only spending time with him because it was part of his job, but he wasn't asking for anything in exchange, and he wasn't making it clear that he hated this. He was being encouraging, telling Clint he had done well, and didn’t want anything back. Part of Clint had been grateful for that, and part of him had been so terrified that a cold ball of fear had settled in his stomach. Clint tried to focus now on the gratitude, on the exact look in Phil's eyes as he had told him that he had done well. That was a memory that would stick with him.

Right now he needed memories like that. The cell he was in was dark and cold, and the cuffs were digging in around his wrists. He was alone, but he wouldn't be for long. Another man would return, would shout at him, would hit him when he refused to talk, when he tried to hold out.

Before, he might have told. He knew you were meant to stay loyal to SHIELD, that any word against them would be your own death sentence, but he was caged in the dark and right now a death sentence was sounding good. He owed SHIELD a lot, but his loyalty had never been tested, so he couldn’t call which way he would have gone. But now, he couldn’t talk. Not after Coulson helping him.

There was no serious damage, not yet. These people were professionals. They could drag this out for weeks, and no one was coming for him. That, Clint was certain of. He’d just have to hope his sanity snapped before he reached breaking point, that he’d not tell because he no longer understood. That was all he looked forwards to, his punishment for being stupid enough to let them creep up on him, too focused on the action on the ground to look at what was happening near him.

He knew he deserved every punch, every bruise, every slow threat hissed against his ear. He wasn't going to talk. He was terrified, but he thought of that look in Coulson's eyes, rather than the blood, rather than the pain, and he held his tongue.

The door opened once more, and he closed his eyes against the first wave of blows. He'd seen his newest tormentor, but as he had strode closer and grabbed Clint's shirt, Clint had looked away. The man shook him hard.

"Why are you loyal?"  
Clint didn't answer, his tongue heavy. He hadn't spoken, not at all. Not that that was worth anything. They knew his name. He hadn't told them, but they knew his name. He didn't think about that too hard. If he did, he might have lost control.  
"You think they're going to come for you Agent Barton? You think anyone is ever going to care about you? You're worthless. They sold you out. Talk, and you will at least have some use."

His tongue almost ached with the need to say, to stop the words being hissed at him, to get revenge on what they had done. But Coulson had been patient. Coulson had helped him through an entire report before he had gone to do other things. He'd not laughed once at Clint. That was scary, but also had felt...nearly warm. Now, that knowledge was just making Clint's life harder, because saying would make things so much simpler.

He tried to go back to the office, and focus on the tone of Coulson's voice this time. He liked that voice. He wouldn't play up, at least not severely, and then maybe Coulson would not criticise him. He knew his thoughts were pathetic, but he needed something to think about. His mouth opened at the next blow, but only to scream.

This had been his first proper mission with Coulson as his handler, and it would be his last. The information exchange had happened, and he had taken out one of the targets with a non-fatal shot, just like he had been meant to. Then the atmosphere had changed, and they had found him, they had drugged him and taken him, and he'd never see anyone again.

He was going to die in the dark, he was sure of that, and he would miss them. He'd miss the Junior Agents that laughed at him, he'd miss Grant's bed and the brief moments of contact. And he would miss Agent Coulson. 

At that thought, and a hit to his ribs, he let his world fade to black.  
****   
The mission had been proceeding as normal from Coulson's viewpoint, on the ground, directing the other agents, speaking to Barton and making sure that he knew what was going on, when the plans had altered. Barton was doing well - he might not have meshed with the rest of the team, but he was listening to Phil and even making the occasional comment to help. It helped Phil to be sure that he had made the right call with the younger man, made him certain that Barton capable of being more than just the SHIELD bicycle.

An arrow thudded into the thigh of a target, and the man went down screaming. The rest of the targets had seen him fall, and scarpered. He watched as the information was passed from the man they had been following to a younger member of the gang, who pocketed it and took off at high speed.

"Take him out Barton." He ordered, but there was no response. "Barton?" He called, but there was still no answer. "Evans, Clarke, get after him." The two other junior agents pursued the gang member, and the information, whilst the senior ones stuck to their plans and chased after the man they had followed here.

"Report." Coulson ordered over comms when he heard nothing from the two agents.  
"Lost him." Evans panted, whilst Clarke was still struggling to breathe - neither of them were unfit, they couldn't be to survive in SHIELD, but the man had been going fast and had known the back alleys well. According to the reports, the young gang member had managed to climb up a wall and onto the roofs. They had pursued him, but had lost track when he had jumped down a fire escape.

"Alright." He turned to the agents that were with him, handcuffing the men they had captured. "Barton?" The silence was endless. He went himself to look, and found that the spot they had left the sniper in was empty other than a hypodermic discarded on the ground. He picked it up with a gloved hand, knowing that medical would want to run tests. He was sure it couldn't be a poison - if you were poisoning someone, you wouldn't take them, you’d just leave the body there. It was most likely a sedative.

He turned to the surrounding agents. "I want you to focus your resources on tracking down that boy and making sure he doesn't pass the information on. Other than you, Morely, and Evans when you get back here. You're going to be watching surveillance and finding out where they have taken Barton." Morely and Evans were the best at this kind of work, and he was not willing to risk Barton's safety. 

Right now, in Phil's mind, tracking down the information was secondary to ensuring Barton was found. Barton was a good agent, and he would be of more use than the files in the long term. More than that, Barton was his responsibility. He had been working hard for Phil, and had come on this mission at Phil's request. If Barton was being hurt, Phil knew that it was his fault. Agents got hurt sometimes, that was part of the job, and Phil knew he couldn't always prevent it. But it was a matter of personal honour to him to always try and get them home.

He had stayed awake during the night, watching as the information had poured in, working on getting Barton back. Pursuing the man who had taken the information was handed over to Sitwell, who accepted the responsibility without complaint. By the next morning, and Phil's seventh cup of coffee, they had located the building where Barton was being held. 

He led the team of agents sent to ensure Barton's extraction, anger burning cold in his gut. He knew a little about the men who had taken him - they were an organised crime ring that SHIELD had been after for a while, with funding links to HYDRA. He had seen photographs of bodies they had left mutilated, but he was sure that they wouldn't have done that to Barton - they wanted the information they thought he had.

As they approached the building, Phil hoped that Barton hadn't spoken. Not because he didn't want SHIELD's secrets betrayed - Barton was low level enough that that wasn't a real threat, but because if he had spoken they would have no use for him. 

Coulson organised the attack. Satisfying though it would have been to go in guns blazing, find Barton and get him to safety, he knew that there would be more use in seeing what happened, continuing to observe. So only a handful of agents went in, led by Coulson himself, and they made little noise, sedating and capturing the few individuals that they saw.

Agent Morely had a brief discussion with one of the guards, which ended with the guard having three broken fingers, and then she was able to report exactly where Barton was held. Coulson thanked her, and headed straight there, giving three of the five other agents orders to track down the leader - if they brought him in, the group would be thrown into disarray and would be more easy to control, revealing who they were working for in the panic.

Morely peeled off to continue talking with the guards, and Coulson led the two that were left with him to the basement room Barton was being held in. He could have picked the lock, but an explosive charge was faster. He walked in to find Barton unconscious, bruised and bloody, but most importantly breathing. He smiled slightly and picked him up.  
“Found the target. We’re bringing him out.” He would take Barton to the rendezvous point and wait for the other agents to join them there.


	6. Waking up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint wakes up in hospital and finds that he is not alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Mentions of canon appropriate violence, appropriate use of medication and non-graphic mentions of torture.

Clint came back into consciousness slowly, a soft ache reminding him that he was alive. As he became more aware, the pain intensified, although it lacked the crescendo it had had before. He laid with his eyes closed, keeping his breathing steady, trying to work out where he was.

His thoughts felt foggy, so it wasn't as simple a task as it should have been. He could smell antiseptic, and he was on a bed, so he wasn't still in the cell. He was in a hospital, or a medical room, judging by the sterile taste of the air and the soft beeping of the machines. He wasn't alone. There was someone else in the room with him, breathing. They were still there.

He tried to stay relaxed and appear asleep as he ran over what had happened in his head. He remembered passing out, when he wouldn't talk. Maybe one of them had got carried away, and the injuries were worse than he realised. He pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, soothing one of his concerns. He still had his tongue. But there were other things that would be more damaging than that. If he lost his hand, even a finger, and was unable to hold a bow, he would be rendered useless, thrown out of SHIELD, with no one caring that he was gone.

Worse, he realised with the icy sensation of dread creeping up his spine, would be if he lost his sight. The thought of being blind terrified him more than he could say, and he heard the beeps from the machine getting louder and closer together as his pulse spiked. He opened his eyes, needing to know, and collapsed back against the bed at the sudden burning brightness of the hospital lights. He could see. Right then, that was all that he cared about.

A moment later, he cursed himself for being enough of an idiot to make it clear he was awake. The stress had made his head hurt, and he could hardly breathe, but he tried to prepare for a fight.

"At ease Agent Barton." The sound of Coulson's voice startled Clint so much that he twisted to look at him despite the pain. Coulson was there, he hadn't imagined the sound of his voice. Coulson stared at Clint, taking in the state he was in, the panic that had just shot through him, and said nothing.

Clint looked away, trying to understand why he was there, and the silence stretched on. He could hear Coulson's pen scratching at the paper as he worked on a file. Clint tried to speak, but even breathing made his throat ache. He heard footsteps approaching, and opened his eyes to see one of Coulson's hands approaching his face, slipping an ice chip between his lips. He managed a smile at that, letting the chip rest against his tongue until it had melted away, then swallowing the remainder of the liquid. 

"I didn't talk." He said, his voice shaking a little more than he would have liked.  
"I know Barton." Coulson's voice was slow, and soft, and calming, and Clint felt his eyelids getting heavy.  
"They didn't hurt me bad." He spoke, aiming to convince Coulson that he would be fit to go back on missions soon. He didn't want to be out of action for long. It wouldn't take long for him to be up and about, even if they took him off the pain drugs, and he certainly didn't want Coulson to decide that he needed a new handler. A new handler was the very opposite of what he needed. He just needed to keep on with what he was doing.

"They hurt you bad enough." Coulson answered, his voice steady, and Clint yawned. "Get some rest Barton, you'll have another assessment later to see whether the drug has worn off."

Clint managed a slight nod, and a muttered "yessir" before he fell into sleep again.

***

It was a lot later, judging by the dark sky outside, when Clint next woke up. He was pleasantly surprised to find that he was indeed in hospital, that he hadn't dreamed that part. He was just surprised to find that Coulson was still sat at the bedside, using the table next to him as a rest for his paperwork. 

This time, he had woken peacefully, and so Coulson was as of yet unaware he was awake. Or, more likely, was aware but had chosen not to comment on it, so Clint opened his eyes slightly, and watched Coulson working. He could have stayed watching him for hours, given the chance, but Coulson had looked over at him after only a couple of minutes.

Clint had the decency to look embarrassed when he realised that Coulson had caught him looking. He swallowed slightly, hissing slightly at the movement.  
“Sir?”  
“You decided to join us then Barton…” Coulson’s voice wasn’t just soft. He sounded amused almost. “You did worry me for a little, running off like that. You need to be more careful next time.”  
“Yes sir.” Clint answered, his voice a careful monotone. Of course Coulson had been concerned, he was a sniper and had SHIELD’s information. Him being captured was a security risk.  
"Can you tell me what happened?"

That question made everything click into place in Clint's mind. Of course. Coulson was waiting for his report.  
"I can do the paperwork sir." He insisted, trying to sit up, but Coulson placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down, and he couldn't argue with him right now.  
"That won't be necessary. Just tell me what happened."

Clint nodded, beginning to explain, ignoring the dry feeling of his mouth. He wanted to just get this part over with, so he would be able to sleep. He was still tired. The hospital was probably sedating him.  
"I was focused on what was happening on the ground. They crept up behind me and drugged me, and when I woke up I was in a cell..." He hesitated for a moment, double checking his own memories before he felt confident enough to say it. "They knew my surname, and I didn't tell them. Someone on our side was helping them. They said someone had sold me out."

Coulson nodded, and typed out a message on his phone. Clint continued to explain what had happened, not that there was anything worth the agent worrying about.  
"And then I woke up here." He finished with a shrug. "Where I really do not need to be, I'm not hurt much, I'll be better in a couple of days, you don't need to-"  
"It would be best if you stay here until we at least know the drugs have worn off." Coulson insisted gently, no anger in his voice, just casual authority. Clint nodded.

"Is there anyone that you wish me to contact?" Coulson asked after a few moments of silence. "I looked at your file, but you don't have anyone listed."  
"No." Clint answered almost immediately, making his voice sound far stronger than he felt at that moment. "No, there's no one for you to contact."

Coulson looked at him with his normal calm expression, but Clint couldn't shake the feeling that there was something under it this time. It didn't take him long to work out what the emotion was. It was one he'd seen often enough. Disappointment. His new handler was already disappointed with him, would be trying to transfer him in a few days. He had had one chance, this one mission, and he had ruined everything.

That left him with nothing. If he couldn't get a handler, and one that would stick with him, well, he was going to be thrown out of SHIELD. A worldclass archer was no use if he had no one to shoot for. He was already on probation. 

There was a part of Clint reeling at that realisation, angry and upset at the thought of no longer having somewhere to call home. The majority of him though just felt numb. He didn't care anymore. He was a failure, a fuckup. He’d always known that. This was just confirmation.

"Agent Barton?" Couslon's voice had a slightly softer edge to it than usual, which Clint guessed was a bad sign. He looked up, wondering if he was bracing himself to give the 'we appreciate all you've done for us but you just aren't what we are looking for’ speech.   
"Yes?"

"When you were captured..." Coulson seemed to be picking his words carefully, making an exaggerated attempt not to ask the wrong thing. Clint didn't know why he was making such an effort about it, but he appreciated the false show of kindness and wasn't about to complain. "How long did you expect us to take to find you?"

Clint frowned slightly, and Coulson mistook his confusion for a lack of understanding of the question.   
"You were badly bruised - nothing terrible, but certainly worse than you get most missions. And you keep saying it's nothing bad, which meant you were expecting worse, so..." He looked at Clint, waiting for him to continue the explanation.

"I didn't think you were coming for me. It seemed like it would be a waste of resources."  
"I see." Coulson nodded, and looked down at his paperwork for a few moments. Clint drummed his fingers against the mattress, wondering how he was meant to be responding. He was still trying to figure that out when Coulson spoke.  
"Clint." Clint jumped slightly at the first use of his forename from his handler. "Whenever it is possible, we retrieve our assets. You know that. They are valuable."  
"I know. I know they are...."

"You are valuable Barton. And I was intending to retrieve you. I would retrieve you if it happened again."  
"Oh." Clint couldn't think of anything else to say, so he just turned his back on Coulson, and allowed him to get on with his paperwork. Before that though, Coulson held up a pill, and Clint felt bile rising in his throat.  
“The doctors said you should take this.”

Clint nodded once. The silence hung in the air between them, and Clint felt like he was about to die of shame. In a way, it was nice to know that he was still able to feel that, but he wished he wasn’t feeling it right then.   
“Alright.” He held out his hand, and took the tablet that was passed to him, swallowing it down with a sip of water. He might have hated them, but he knew he would feel worse without them. He waited for Coulson to sneer, but he just took the glass back.

“Is it alright if I stay here until the doctor returns?” Coulson asked softly. Clint just shrugged, not really able to care, doubt eating away at him. Coulson had known about the pills, and still described Clint as valuable. He clearly just didn’t understand. Clint wasn’t valuable. What he could do might have been, but he himself wasn’t. Yet Clint couldn’t bring himself to send Coulson away.

He settled back on the pillow to rest, thinking through what had been said, and allowing his eyes to close. Just before he fell asleep, he thought that he felt a slight pressure against his hand, as though someone had grasped it. He smiled softly at that thought, as Coulson’s thumb ran over the back of his hand.


	7. Going Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Returning to SHIELD brings further problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: A lot of self hatred in this one, and a sex scene with an OMC that whilst consensual and non-violent contains slut shaming.

Clint woke several hours later, by which time the sky outside had turned light once more. He lay there, staring at the window, enjoying the chance to rest, before he became aware of a slight pressure against his hand. He turned, and jolted slightly when he saw that Coulson was beside him, still holding his hand. He jerked away from his handler's grasp, too startled to think better of it.

"Barton?" Coulson sounded concerned, as though he was worried for Clint. The thought nearly made Clint laugh.  
"Sorry." He muttered. "Fell asleep. I didn't mean to..." He glanced back at Coulson's hand. Coulson shrugged. "You didn't. I was holding yours.... it's alright."

Clint nodded, closing his eyes for a moment, then they snapped open again when he felt a slight brush against his forehead, realising what had happened. Coulson had kissed his forehead. His heartrate monitor sped up in shock, but he wasn't afraid. It was alright, he knew this. Knew it well, and it wasn't like he minded. He was an assassin, highly trained in self-defence, he wasn't exactly easy to overpower against his will.  
"Something I can do to help there sir?"

Coulson frowned, looking at him in confusion, before his expression slid into disgust, and he shook his head.  
"No Barton. That won't be necessary."

Tightness seized Clint's chest. He felt like he was being accused of being dirty - but he couldn't exactly argue with that. It was Coulson's fault. Coulson had started it. Coulson had kissed him, not the other way around.

"You've been cleared to return to SHIELD." Coulson informed him after a few moments, and Clint felt himself relax. He could go back to the room he hated, back to privacy, and try not to think about the way he so clearly disgusted Coulson. He almost shivered for a moment, but tried to ignore the chill in his gut.

"I'll go and tell them you're awake. And I'll bring back something to eat." Coulson got up and walked away, and Clint couldn't shake the feeling that he'd done something wrong. He just wasn't sure what. This was all Coulson's fault, he was the one making things difficult. If he wanted to flirt, Clint could do that. If not, Clint was happy to just leave him alone, and carry on with how his life was going. He was good at his life.

He laid there alone in the hospital room, surrounded by the sound of his monitors beeping, and tried not to worry. His hand felt odd from where it had been held. Almost dirty. Because he didn't get to sleep holding hands, not really, not like that. That was for other people. He reached over to grab a bottle of hand sanitiser that had been left next to his bed, cleaning his hand, rubbing away the ghost of Coulson's touch. He missed it, but at least he was clean now.

He lost track of time, but guessed it was probably just a few minutes when Coulson walked back in, looking at the plate of sandwiches he was carrying. Clint ate hungrily, and tried not to think about this. He wasn't meant to think, thinking just complicated things. 

"When we get back, you have a report to complete." Coulson reminded him. Clint frowned.   
"I can just dictate it." He muttered, only too aware that he sounded like a petulant child.  
"You could." Coulson answered, his voice level. "But you are not going to, because we are going to work on your reading."  
"Why the fuck does it matter to you?" Clint snapped.   
"Because you need to work on it." Coulson answered, his voice so level and calm that Clint almost wanted to hit him. He took a few deep breaths, and nodded, not saying anything. His silence was childish, but it helped a little.

"I'll give you time to get cleaned up, then come to my office so we can do the report."  
"Yessir." Clint answered, but he was annoyed, and sure that showed in his voice. Coulson didn't dignify him with a response. He just took Clint back to the headquarters, and then walked away, leaving Clint to sort things out.

Clint was still sore from what had happened, but it wasn't unmanageable. He made his way back to his locker, opening it to see if anyone had even noticed he was missing. There were three numbers inside. He pocketed those, and headed to his room, going to shower and rinse the smell of the hospital from him, taking a painkiller. Coulson's words echoed around his head. The sheer calmness with which Coulson had told him he was valuable. But Coulson was sick of him now, and he couldn't work out what he had done wrong.

Once he was clean, he stepped out of the shower, looking at the numbers. There was one he didn't recognise, so he told himself he wouldn't risk that one right now. One was an agent who'd been in SHIELD a few years, was well respected and occasionally even affectionate in the immediate aftermath of sex. The other was another rookie, with a wife at home. He just wanted to fuck, and that was something Clint could provide. He called up the more senior agent first, arranging to meet them that evening, and then calling the rookie, saying he'd be over in a couple of minutes.

He made his way there, grinning at him, soon losing himself to moans and the feeling of hands upon him, the rookie's cock inside of him. He couldn't even remember this one's name right now, but it didn't matter. What mattered at that moment was the proof that someone didn't think he was dirty, that someone was willing to touch him, willing to desire him. That was important. He focused on that, rocking back against his body.

The rookie started talking, and for a moment Clint tried listening to the words muttered in his ear.   
"You're a slut Barton. You sleep with everyone in SHIELD. Surprised Coulson's still letting you out, there must be something in your arrangement." 

Clint tensed slightly at the words, but they were nothing he didn't already know to be true. He tried to use the sensation of the man inside him as something centering, something comforting. It felt good. He clenched tighter around him until he came, and then Clint closed his eyes for a moment, reaching down to get himself off.

The rookie's hand wrapped around him instead, and Clint's head fell back as he cried out his climax.  
"Thanks." He muttered, handing the other rookie a tissue to wipe his hand clean on, pulling on his uniform and making his way back to his room for a quick shower, then heading to Coulson's office.

He knew that the rookie was right, that he was a slut, that the only reason anyone would be trying to keep him in SHIELD would be for sex, but Coulson had seemed disgusted by the idea. He decided he would have to ask. He knocked on the door, making his way over to the desk when Coulson called him inside.

"You took your time." Coulson said, but it wasn't an accusation exactly. His words were soft, and it was more concern than anything else. Clint wondered if he'd made the wrong choice, but Coulson had made it pretty clear he didn't want him.

"I had to go and see a friend."

Coulson looked at him blankly, his face impassive. Far more impassive than usual, which Clint thought was probably a sign of something. He just didn't know what it was a sign of.  
"Barton..." He sighed, the breath slow, considered. It seemed that he was trying to work out what to say next, but couldn't think of how to approach it. 

"Sir?"  
Coulson shook his head, and pointed at the report on his desk.   
"We're going to work on this."  
"Sure." Clint hesitated, then decided to just go ahead and ask what was happening. It would only eat him up inside otherwise. "Why are you bothering with this? If you want to sleep with me, and god knows you probably do, I'm hot, you can just ask. You don't have to keep pretending to be nice, keep doing things for me. You can just ask me and I can do it, you know?" He grinned at him, hoping that this would stop the awkwardness between them.

It didn't.

Coulson's lips pressed together into a thin line, and he looked at Clint coldly. Clint felt himself shiver, curling up in his seat slightly, and tried not to think about what messing this up meant. Messing this up meant that he wouldn't get to stay in SHIELD. He could do this. He just had to work out what it was that Coulson wanted. The silence stretched on

"I won't be asking you for that Barton. We... we are going to have a discussion about your behaviour, but first we are going to do this report."

Clint nodded, reaching out for it and the purple transparency beside it, resting it so that he could read what had been written, checking he had understood, then writing his answers, asking for the occasional assistance with spelling. He'd glance up sometimes, and the look Coulson was giving him was strange. It was nothing he could give a name to, and he looked away and turned back to his work.

It took over an hour, but he finally finished it on his own, and held it out to Coulson for approval. Coulson looked it over, and smiled, nodding once.  
"Well done Clint."

That was the first time Coulson had used his first name, and when Clint looked up, he realised with surprise that he could name the look he was getting this time. He'd seen it, but not normally directed at him. Coulson was proud of what he had done.


	8. The Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Coulson talk about what has been happening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Questions about if sexual acts were consensual.

Coulson was smiling at Clint, proud of what he had done, was impressed by the fact he had completed his report. Managing that was something that could make Coulson proud, and Clint could barely believe that. He had done something good. He had done something to make Coulson proud of him. The thoughts kept echoing around his head, so loud that he couldn’t think, but he needed to try and make sense of it.

He looked back at the report, at the scribbled writing across it. It didn't look like an hour's worth of work. It didn't look like five minutes worth of work. But he had done it. He had done it and made Coulson proud, and as he looked at the sheet, he felt a slight warmth inside him. He was proud as well. He reached out, smoothing the sheet of paperwork, and holding it out to Coulson with a genuine smile on his face.  
"You did well." Coulson reassured him, taking the paper from him. He looked over the sheet, and smiled at him, nodding once.

Clint thought he could get used to this praise, to this soft reassurance. He wouldn't get a chance to, but he thought that he could if he had got it. He committed the emotion to his memory, because this was his chance to do well, this was his chance to have done something right. He was a fuckup, but this he had done right.

"Clint?" Coulson's voice was soft, but he was looking at him calmly, with that same cold look in his eyes that he had had earlier. The pride was gone. He took a deep breath, and nodded at Coulson's words.  
"Sir?"

"We need to talk about your behaviour."  
"I've not done anything wrong..." He protested. "I know my focus wasn't perfect last mission but it won't happen again..." Clint felt sick. If he wasn't doing well enough, he was going to lose his place in SHIELD. He had to make Coulson happy but he didn't know how. Everything that normally worked well on everyone else didn't work on him.

"It's not about your professional performance." Coulson reassured him. "It's about your behaviour when you're not in the field."  
"I don't see what that's got to do with you sir." Clint muttered. "If I want to sleep with people, that's my choice."

"It is." Coulson agreed, reaching out, his hand resting over Clint's. Clint nearly jerked away from the touch, but Coulson's eyes were sad now, patient, and he couldn't quite bring himself to move away. "And if you want to sleep with multiple partners, if its something that you enjoy, I don't mind that. As long as you don't blab SHIELD secrets, that's your choice. You do what you think is right."

"Okay?" Clint asked, trying to work out what was happening with this conversation. Coulson squeezed his hand once more.

"But if you aren't doing it because you enjoy it, I want to know, do you understand?"

Clint nodded.  
"So are you doing it because you enjoy it?"  
Clint hesitated, trying to work out how he was going to phrase this. It wasn't like he minded the sex. But it was the contact he craved, the chance to fit in. It was the chance to be part of something.

He only realised he'd stopped speaking for too long when Coulson spoke again.  
"Do they have something on you Barton? Are they making you? Because if they are making you, I will find a way of stopping them."  
"No." Clint laughed nervously. "No, no it's not anything like that, fuck... it's nothing like that... I promise, I'm not... they aren't.... it isn't like that." It would have been easy to hint that they had made him. Only Coulson would have pressed for more information. Clint would just have to admit how messed up he was. He swallowed rapidly, knowing that the inevitable laughter from Coulson was going to hurt.

"Then what is it like?" Coulson asked, and he sounded cold, calm, and Clint couldn't work out how to answer. He guessed he'd start off by just proving Coulson’s concerns wrong.  
"I go out of choice. Honest. I go, and I can leave at any time. They don't call me, they just leave their numbers. I call if I want to go."

"So why do you go if you aren't enjoying it?"  
"I..." Clint knew this would be pathetic. But he had to answer, or Coulson might give up with him.   
"You can do better than this Clint." Coulson prompted, and Clint felt himself getting angry, furious at this unnecessary kindness.  
"What does it matter to you sir?"  
"I'm not talking to you right now as your handler Clint. I'm talking to you as your friend, because I hope that might be what we are."

Clint nodded, staring at him. He couldn't remember the last time he had had a friend. He wasn't sure he ever had had. But if he was willing to tell him that, Clint was willing to give him an honest answer.  
"Because sometimes, afterwards, they hold me for a bit."

Coulson stared at him, and it was a look of shock and sadness in his eyes, barely hidden at all. Clint felt ashamed that he could have caused that response. He stayed perfectly still as Coulson got out from his desk, walked to Clint, and wrapped his arms around him, pulling him back against his chest.

Clint tensed, confused, trying to work out why this had happened. He could see it was linked to what he had just said. He had said he wanted to be held, and Coulson had held him. That should have been simple to understand, but it wasn’t.  
"Sir?" He whispered, voice shaking.  
"Not your handler right now Clint. Just your friend."  
Clint turned round to face him, and held him back.


	9. Slow Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Over the last week, Clint has been making progress, but he's still got a way to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Discussions of mental illness and medication
> 
> Notes: I just want to thank you all for the amazing reaction to the last chapter! You are all wonderful, and so encouraging.

Clint laid on the rooftop, watching the targets below, ready to provide backup cover in a moment if it was needed. The bow felt natural in his hands, and his breathing was steady. It had been a week since that incident, the moment Coulson had embraced him in his office, and since then he had received three other embraces from the older man, for success on his reading and filling in of forms. Being held was almost addictive, and he was determined to keep doing well.

"You alright up there Agent Barton?"  
"I'm good." Clint answered Coulson, grateful for the fact the handler seemed to be making an effort to check in with him regularly on the radio. He waited, as the mission was completed without him being required to fire a shot. For once, unusually, everything had gone smoothly.

He sat with the others in the transport back to base, checking his arrows for any signs of damage, any problems he would need to fix. They were all laughing among themselves, but Clint knew that he wasn't welcome. It didn't bother him as much as it had before.

When the vehicle stopped, they all stepped out to be confronted by Agent Coulson holding a pile of paperwork. He gave each of them a form. Clint had ended up at the back of the queue.  
"You need me to help you there Barton?"

Clint hesitated. He wanted Coulson’s help, but more than that, he wanted to see what he could do himself.  
"I am going to go and try in my room okay?" He asked, a little hesitant. He still hated his room, but the emptiness there had its uses, especially when he wanted quiet to focus on the forms he had to fill in.  
"Okay. Bring it along later." Coulson smiled at him, and Clint nodded and headed back to his room, not bothering to check his locker. Any numbers there could wait until after he’d finished the report. 

He sat with the sheets in front of him, cross legged in his room, reading over the files that he had found, the information they had provided him with. It was interesting, a challenge, to work out what was said, to link it to reality and then write down an answer. Even with the help of the purple sheet, and a lot of patience, it took him over an hour to reach the bottom section of the form, and there were several points he had skipped because working out how to phrase the answers clearly was too difficult – it would have to include words that he just wasn’t able to spell.

He looked at the half-completed form, and decided that that was as far as he was going to get. He shoved it in his locker on the way past, glancing down and finding there was a piece of paper in there. He'd check the number of it later. First, he headed to the gym, allowing himself to forget in the steady rhythm of movement, the familiar sense of doing what he had always been good at. Then he showered, and finally he picked up the file once more, heading to Coulson's office.

On the way there, he wondered what Coulson would think, whether he'd be impressed. He doubted that – wasn’t even sure Coulson would be there and not in a meeting. But if he was there, and was impressed, Clint thought that would be good. He could definitely become accustomed to impressing Coulson. He knocked on the office door.

"Come in."

He walked inside, and held out the form.  
"I did what I could."  
"That's good... I just need to finish this, and then I will help you look it over, alright?"

Clint nodded, picking up a book that Coulson had started to leave on his desk for his sake, and the purple sheet that was beneath it. It wasn't a particularly complicated book - it was for children, about Captain America. But Coulson had chosen it, and he was making his way through it. In another few days, he would have completed it, and it would be the first book he had ever finished reading. He dwelt on that for a moment, frowning a little as he realised he was starting to get a headache.

The pressure in his mind continued to build, and the room began to spin. He curled up in his seat, eyes screwed closed, trying to make it stop.

"Barton?" The words in his ear felt distant, and he wondered why he wasn't on top of a sky scraper or tower block. "Agent?" His head ached so much, and he felt ill.  
"Clint!" The voice sounded almost concerned, urgent, and he snapped back to reality, rubbing his head. He'd been feeling rotten since he had finished at the gym, but he hadn't worried about it until now. He blinked dazedly. 

"Sir?"  
"Clint..." Coulson paused, looking at him with cold, calm eyes. "Have you been taking your medication?”  
Clint stared down at the ground, trying to fight through the dizziness that was still swirling around him. He felt tired, and disorientated, and he knew he was lucky that he hadn't been like this a few hours ago, when lives had depended on him being able to make shots.  
"I'm fine."

"Clint..." Coulson's voice had a slight edge to it, almost a warning, a hint of the side of him that was Clint's handler, rather than his friend. It served as a reminder that if he wanted to, he could make this official. Clint shook his head.  
"Look, I hate that stuff. And I'm... I've been feeling a bit better right?"

Coulson shook his head, waiting for Clint to look up at him before speaking.  
"I know you don't like it, but you wouldn't have been prescribed it if they didn't think there was a good reason for you to take it." His voice was calm, and gentle, and Clint bristled against it. 

Coulson noticed, reaching out and putting a hand on his arm, to steady Clint and try to stop him from snapping.  
"If you stop taking them suddenly, you are going to make yourself very sick. Barton... Clint... I want you to try and carry on taking them, for now at least. Once you've stopped being ill... you can go to medical, and discuss what it is that you want to do. If they agree it's best for you to stop taking them, and help you do so slowly, I can support that."

"I want to stop now." Clint answered, but he knew he was being petty and unfair. The medicine didn't just exist to annoy him, no matter how much it felt like that sometimes. "I want to be healthy."  
"You are. And the medicine is there to help you with that, same as if you had a chest infection the antibiotics would be there to help you get better."  
"It's not the same." Clint muttered.  
"Yes it is." Coulson helped support him, walking with him from Coulson's office to his room, where he grabbed a pill and swallowed it dry.

Coulson sighed softly, but didn't complain, just nodding approval at the fact he actually took the tablet. He led Clint back to his office, sitting him back down with his book, and resuming the report.

Clint glanced over, saw the slight crease of concentration on Coulson's face, and realised that his illness had pulled Coulson away from his work. He opened his mouth to apologise just as Coulson put the lid on his pen.  
"I can hear you feeling guilty Clint. It wasn't your fault. You felt ill, I wanted to help." 

Clint nodded quietly, and walked over to Coulson with the report when he was beckoned over, taking the seat Coulson pulled up beside him, and slowly working through the gaps in the paperwork.

He moved closer to Coulson, a look of silent focus in his eyes, hoping that the older man wouldn't object as long as he was still working. Coulson smiled, tilting the paper a little to suit Clint's new angle, but otherwise made no comment.

The two of them worked side by side for some time, before Coulson pulled away from him with a nod.  
"You did well Clint."  
Clint couldn't quite hold back the smile that threatened at those words. Not that he wanted to hold it back. He had learned over the past week that Coulson would return the shy hopeful smile with a more confident one of his own, and when he smiled that was exactly what happened.

"How are you getting on Clint?" Coulson asked, when all the work was carefully placed to one side.  
"I'm fine." Clint answered quickly, before realising that Coulson would want an honest answer. "Much better than before."  
"Good..." Coulson smiled. "Like I said, you're welcome in my office at any point Clint. If I'm working, you just might have to wait a while before I can speak to you.”

"I can wait." Clint answered with a shrug. "I'm good at waiting. I can wait out on exposed platforms for days. I think I can sit on a sofa while you finish what you are working on."  
"Good." Coulson smiled at him. "Have the other agents bothered you at all?"

Clint shook his head, a slight simplification, but the names he had been called were nothing he didn't already consider to be true, so weren't worth mentioning.  
Coulson nodded, patient, in control. He might not have believed Clint, but he was ready to let him handle it at his own pace.  
"You're doing well."

Clint's entire face lit up at that comment, and Coulson rolled his eyes, but wrapped an arm around Clint's shoulder. Clint made no effort to move away, instead leaning into the slight warmth of his handler's body. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the slight warmth of Coulson’s body against his, the praise echoing in his mind. He had done well.

Clint knew he had been doing well, but hearing it from Coulson was something else. He had never felt as comfortable, as safe, as he did right here.  
“Are you alright there Clint?” Coulson asked softly.  
“Yeh. Just thinking.”

“Want to share?” Coulson prompted, voice gentle, steady. Clint wondered why Coulson bothered to be so patient with him, but he was never going to complain, as long as that patience continues.  
“This…” He shrugged. “I think it’d be different with you. I really like you. I …” He laughed hollowly. “I know you can do so much better than me, but I’d like…”  
“Is it something you actually want?” Coulson asked after a pause, his arms not leaving Clint’s shoulders. Clint was so grateful for that. “Or is it something you’re offering so that I’ll hold you?”

“I want it.” Clint answered quickly. “I know you… I know you do this without wanting anything other than me working well. But if… if you wanted more, I’d like that.”

The silence stretched between them, and Clint would have tensed if not for Coulson’s hand gently rubbing his shoulder.  
“I see… Clint, we’ll see what happens. But for now, I think we need to be friends. I need to be certain you’re offering for the right reasons.”

“What does that matter?” Clint snapped back, suddenly angry at how calm Coulson was, how patient he was about this.  
“It matters.” Coulson’s voice was colder now, but he hadn’t broke contact. “And until you can see that, it isn’t going to work.”

Clint glared at the floor, but moved so that his head was resting against Coulson’s shoulder, deep in thought.


	10. Making Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint realises he's going to have to make some decisions, and starts to learn that Coulson is on his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Violence and slut shaming language.

Clint headed to the range, still thinking over what Coulson had said to him the previous night. That he had to be doing this for the right reasons. He thought he was doing it for the right reasons - he liked being with Coulson, he felt happy around him, and he wanted to wake up in his arms every day. 

He could be held now, which was great, he certainly wasn't going to do anything that might jeopardise being held, but at the same time he found himself wanting more. He had a friend, and that was awesome, but he wanted more than friendship. If it didn't ever happen though, he was good with that. He already had so much more than he could have expected.

He positioned an arrow, drawing the bowstring back to his face it was resting against his skin, and then released, watching with satisfaction as it thudded directly into the middle of the target. He repeated the action, imagining that Coulson was nearby, was watching his shots. That thought helped him to feel focused, and meant he was making his shots closer together than normal, the grouping perfect. 

That was a good sign. Because if he could find that centre when he was out in the field, with Coulson's voice in his ear, he was going to become an even better sniper. He was sure Coulson would be proud. That thought meant he relaxed as he stood there. 

He'd checked his locker before he'd come. There had been another couple of numbers there, but for now he was ignoring them. He knew he was delaying the inevitable, that a point would come when he had to choose between calling those numbers, going to see the other agents and losing Coulson's trust, and ignoring them, making a break with that and swapping the momentary gentle touches for the comfort of Coulson's arms. 

But right now, he wasn't sure if that comfort was something that he could rely on. And if it wasn't, he didn't want to throw away everything for it. He trusted Coulson, believed him, but it wouldn't be the first time he'd made the wrong call. His entire life was one bad choice after another, making the wrong decisions about who he could turn to. He didn't want this to be another case of the same thing happening.

His shooting wasn't as good now. He closed his eyes, took a couple of slow breaths, and tried to remember the weight of Coulson's hands on his shoulders, the look in his eyes when he said he'd done well. He could remember that.

"Barton." The voice behind him made him jump - he hadn't realised anyone else was in the room. He turned around to find Agent... he swore mentally when he realised he couldn't remember the guy's name. He was a few years younger than Clint, a cocky bastard with short brown hair in a military buzz cut. He looked at the ID. Agent Frane. Agent Frane was leaning against the door, and Clint registered that it had been his number shoved into Clint's locker before the meeting with Coulson.

It wasn't like Clint didn't like Frane. He was alright, same as any of the others. Nothing special. He just didn't like being approached. He preferred having the chance to do the approaching.

"Frane... What are you doing here?"  
"You didn't call."

Clint felt his lips pressing together into a thin line. This was it then. The point where he made his choice. He nodded. "I didn't call. I decided I didn't want to see you anymore." Just like that, his choice was made for Frane. He'd make choices for the others when he had to, but this was a start. 

He was still thinking that through when Frane punched him hard, slamming him back against the wall. Clint hissed as the room seemed to spin. He could feel blood trickling from his nose.  
"You think you're better than me Barton? You're not better than anyone. Just because you're being fucked by your handler, it doesn't mean you matter. Whatever he's telling you... you do know it's just lies right? Just to get you into bed with him. He doesn't know how easy you are. Almost surprised he could want you." 

"You're wrong." Clint hissed, pushing him away. Frane's words stung, especially because they rung so true to him, and because before, Frane had never been cruel. Clint supposed this is what he got for saying no to someone. But he wasn't going to change his mind. He shoved Frane away from him, trying to get a clear line to the door.

"Really?" The blow that hit the side of his head was unexpected, but Clint managed to move slightly, absorbing most of the impact. He couldn't think clearly, his heart racing as he thought over Frane's words. "Because everyone knows what you're like."  
"Then they're wrong as well." Clint pushed him back, knocking Frane onto the ground, and running from the range, slowing to a walk when he had some distance, and heading straight to his handler's office. He didn't know what he could say about this, but he thought Coulson might want to know. If nothing else, he thought Frane might have been knocked unconscious, and he didn’t want a death of another agent on his conscience.  
He hesitated at the doorway, suddenly hit by a wave of doubt. There had to be other things that he could do, other people he could report this to. He wasn't sure it was worth reporting. If it wasn't for the fact he'd left Frane back there, injured, he wouldn't have mentioned it at all. He was frozen by his thoughts, trying to decide what to do, when the door opened and he nearly fell forwards onto Coulson.

"Agent Barton?" Coulson asked, looking at him, gaze lingering on the bloody nose and bruised face.  
"Sir..."  
"Come inside..." A firm hand on his arm lead him into Coulson's office, the door was closed behind him, and he took a seat in front of Coulson’s desk, trying to smile even though he felt sick. "What happened Clint?"  
"Nothing."  
"The kind of nothing that leads to you standing around outside my door with a bloody nose?" Coulson asked, and there was a slight hint of amusement in his voice.

"Yeh."  
"Clint..." The tone Coulson used wasn't a warning so much as it was patient, but Clint was still going to listen to it.  
"Agent Frane and I had a ...violent discussion." He looked up at Coulson's impassive face, and sighed softly. "And I think I've left him unconscious in the range."

"Which room?" Coulson asked, getting out his tablet and arranging for a medical team to go and check on Frane.  
"Eight."  
"What was this discussion about?"

Clint looked down, chewing his lip, considering how to phrase it, not sure what he could say that Coulson wouldn't read too much into. In the end, he settled on honesty.   
"The fact I hadn't been to see him."  
"You hadn't?" Coulson was looking at Clint curiously, but with a slight smile on his lips. Clint shook his head.   
"I hadn't."

"Well done. I will be having words with Agent Frane..." Coulson was still tapping away at his tablet, and he put it down on the desk between them, so that Clint could watch as the recorded image of Frane let itself into the range, and the figure of Clint spoke to him, the punches starting. Clint wondered if he should have put up more of a fight, or if he was going to be in trouble for injuring another agent. Either seemed like a strong possibility.

Coulson's face grew dark - not by much, his reactions were never obvious. But enough to show that he was angry. He turned to Clint.   
"I'm going to make sure Agent Frane is let go."   
"I'm not worth that sir." Clint answered quickly. He didn't want to cause problems, didn't want a promising young agent to lose their job because of him.

"That's my decision Barton, and I trust my judgement. It was inappropriate of him to behave that way. It is not a way that SHIELD can allow any of its agents to act, and it hints at a volatility which is not appropriate for a combat situation. This has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with how he has acted." 

Clint considered that for a moment. It didn't feel like an insult, although possibly it should have done. He was glad it wasn't anything personal. It just reaffirmed his belief that Coulson was good at his job, that he could judge well. Or at least, could judge well other than when it came to Clint, because he seemed convinced that Clint mattered.

"Thanks sir..."   
"It's alright Clint. It's the right thing to do. And you... did well to say no. If you want to say no, then you should."  
Clint nodded, his head down slightly, staring at the floor as he tried to work out how to say what he wanted to. He looked up again with a smile.

"I think I can believe that now Coulson. And a lot of that is down to you."  
"Thank you Clint...and Clint? When we're not talking professionally, you are allowed to call me Phil." Coulson’s voice was gentle as he walked around the desk. He used a damp tissue to wipe away the blood from Clint's face. Clint let him, not struggling at all.

Clint laughed slightly at Coulson’s words, looking up at him, tilting his head so the blood could be cleaned away This entire situation was ridiculous, but he didn't think he minded that. He trusted Coulson. He trusted Phil. There was a good chance it would come back to bite him, but for now it was working. Few things went well for Clint, and he'd learned not to throw away what he had while he had it.  
"Thanks Phil."

"You're welcome Clint. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

Clint started to walk towards the door, but he was stopped by Coulson… by Phil clearing his throat.  
"You were shooting well by the way." He pointed towards the video on the table, which he had paused before Frane had arrived, all of Clint’s arrows clustered together.

"Thanks Phil." Clint couldn't stop himself from smiling as he left Phil's office.


	11. Fitting In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another mission, and Clint's beginning to relax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Canon appropriate violence

Clint was on another rooftop, one that he had chosen especially - he had been assigned a different one, but when he raised his doubts, Coulson had listened and changed the plan. This gave a better view of the area he needed to see, and whilst he had lost sight of one access point, he could see the other three far more clearly. Overall, it was the better choice.

Coulson had praised him for pointing out where he should be. Clint was learning to make divisions in his mind, to distinguish between Phil, his friend, and Coulson, the handler who had faith in him, the voice in his ear that actually listened if he told him they were making a mistake. It was new, something he was having to put work into, but the rewards were good. Because he knew that if Coulson said well done, he was doing his job well. And if Phil said well done, he was doing his life well. He wasn't sure which one was better, but he liked both of them. He wanted to make both his friend and his handler proud. For now, he was focussed on pleasing the handler.

He looked out over the scene before him, watching the access points, the masked figures crossing the ground before him, and then in the distance the outline of the SHIELD transports. 

This mission was quite a simple one - wiping out a pocket of HYDRA that had started to make themselves known around Boston. It wasn't anything particularly difficult, at least not from where Clint was. For the agents on the ground, those infiltrating enemy cells and trying to keep their covers intact, it was probably a challenge. For Clint, it came down to making sure the bad guys were the ones that got shot.

Coulson had been careful this time, to make sure that no one would be able to sneak up on Clint, that he would be able to operate without being at risk, and that meant Clint could focus on what he was meant to do.

"I can see the new line of guards forming sir." He informed Coulson over the earpiece, watching the men manoeuvre in the courtyard below. The best chance of storming the building would be soon, when the majority of the guards would be busy outside. Getting past them the first time would be a problem, but once they were past, it would mean the agents could block the entrance and scour the insides without being disturbed too often. Clint was to keep watch on what happened, help guide the team through, and shoot anyone who posed a threat to any of the men and women that were sneaking in.

The main battle would be inside the building, out of Clint's sight, but he could still help to get them all in. That was his aim. Getting them all in, and making sure that no one else got in after them. That was what he had been told in the briefing that morning, and that was what he intended to do. He watched the people maneuvering, aware of the fact that he had a better view than the people on the ground. He kept relaying relevant information, making sure that they knew what they needed to, trying to ensure that they could get out in one piece.

"It looks like the guards are all outside now." He watched as the team that was fresh from the compound saluted as a group, punching the air before wheeling around the yard, every movement carefully choreographed. "They're heading away from the base towards the outer gate...The first of the group have reached the outer gate." He waited a little longer, watching as the column slowly filed into place. "They're all out past the gate, heading towards the bend in the road." He waited until he was sure that none of them would be able to see the agents, and then spoke softly, giving the signal to move.

There were seven agents that approached the main entrance, with a further four at each of the sides, including the one he couldn't see. In total, there was a team of nineteen agents, being lead by none other than Coulson himself.

Through the sight of his bow, Clint could make out Coulson's suited figure, towards the middle of the main pack, holding the comm up to his mouth, taking reports and giving orders. Clint could see his lips moving at this distance, as he heard the voice in his ear.  
"Alpha, I want you to go up to the top, Bravo and Echo fan out through this floor, each leaving the assigned individual to guard the entrance." He waited until he heard agreement from all of them. "My team, we're going down to the basements, aside from Morely and Sun who are guarding the main door, with Barton providing cover. Any questions?"  
"No sir." A chorus of voices responded, and Clint could almost hear the satisfied smirk on Coulson's face, knowing he had organised them and briefed them well enough to be able to handle this threat.  
That was something else that Clint was learning to admire about Coulson - he didn't just do his job, he did it well. He could be pretty anal about paperwork at times, but he made up for it by paying attention to what needed to be done, by planning and making sure they all got back safely. He put in the hours, the overtime, needed to ensure that everything went to plan. Compared to people Clint had worked with before, that seemed pretty amazing.

He continued to watch the figures in the distance, as of yet unaware of the fact that their base was being broken into, that they were no longer managing to defend anything. He continued those thoughts as he looked up from Coulson, scanning the windows.

There was the slightest glint, out of the corner of his eye, and he turned towards it, loosing an arrow. As he watched, a figure fell forwards from the window, toppling down to the ground below. Looking at where he had fallen from, Clint could make out a gun. A quick calculation informed him that the man had been about to shoot Coulson. Clint swallowed slightly.   
"They had a sniper, I've taken him out but I'm looking for...DROP!" He shouted, and those on the ground obeyed, a second bullet skimming through the air near Morley. He aimed, calculating in his head where the shots must be coming from, and let the arrow fly through an open window, and into the darkened room beyond. There was a scream, and the guards turned as one back towards the building, starting to race there.  
"Okay, we've got company." He let off a barrage of exploding arrows, cutting up the ground beneath their feat. Coulson was busy organising the actions of the team, letting them clear out the building and set explosives. Clint just needed to hold off the HYDRA agents.

He watched as the team began to emerge again, after several heart-stopping minutes. He was nearly out of arrows, but that didn't matter, because he had kept them back.   
"Clear." Coulson's voice was still calm, as he made sure the building was empty of agents before giving the signal to activate the explosives, starting a count down that would take five minutes to reach completion, to increase the chance of HYDRA operatives being caught up in the blast. It wasn't perfect, but right now it was necessary.

Clint used up the few arrows he had left making sure that the HYDRA foot soldiers stayed away from Coulson and the rest of his team. He ran out just as help arrived in the form of a SHIELD helicopter.

"About time." He muttered, and he could hear the others laughing, and could picture Coulson smiling. That thought made his heart feel light. He watched as the rest of the team was evacuated, before the helicopter got close to him, lowering a ladder so that he could climb aboard. He curled up slightly in his seat, head down, listening to the agents that had been on the ground laughing among themselves. Phil was on the telephone, reporting to Fury, and Clint was trying to be invisible.

"Hey. Barton." Sun called, smiling at him. "Good job there."  
"Yeh." Morely joined in a moment later. "If it wasn't for you paying attention, I would have been dead."

"You did well." Coulson agreed, looking up for a moment before dialing another number. Clint tried not to read too much into that praise.   
"You want to come out for a drink later?" Morely asked, grinning. "I owe you one for certain after you saved me."

Clint hesitated. He wasn't sure he trusted them to give him safe drinks - a thought that he knew was ridiculous, but still existed. More than that though, he wasn't sure if he belonged there. And then there was the fact his medication wasn't meant to be mixed with alcohol, and he didn't want to risk making things worse.

"Are you all going?" he asked curiously.  
"Yeh. All of us." Sun answered, smirking. "Even Agent Coulson sometimes deigns to join us."   
"If you were to go, Barton, you could join me in not drinking. At least, not drinking anything alcoholic. It makes me get migraines, and I hate being the only one sober." Clint got the feeling that that translated to Phil offering to sacrifice some precious time to relax to looking after him. More than that, it showed that Phil had remembered about the tablets, the problems he had, and was still trying to include him. Clint wasn’t as surprised by that as he would have been a few weeks ago, but he was happy about it.

“Fine. I’ll go, and I won’t get drunk.” He grinned cockily at the rest of the group. “I’ll just keep an eye on you all and get loads of blackmail material.”   
The rest of the group laughed, and Clint felt himself relaxing slightly, joining in with their casual joking. 

The debrief went well – everyone was in high spirits, glad that they’d all got out, and then they made their way to the bar. Soon, almost everyone was drunk, laughing and joking and attempting karaoke.

Clint watched them, sitting back on a barstool and sipping his lemonade, an amused smile on his lips.  
“Clint?” Phil spoke, having appeared from nowhere to stand beside him. “May I join you?” The archer raised an eyebrow.   
“Sure.” He pointed to a spare bar stool beside his own. “They really can’t sing, can they?”  
“Not at all.” Phil answered smugly, taking a gulp of his own drink. “You did good today.”  
“Saved your sorry ass.” Clint answered, wondering when he had last felt this relaxed.

“Thanks.” Phil reached out, resting a hand on Clint’s shoulder. “You know…if you ever…want to do this again…the bar, not the mission…. Just us. That’d be good.”  
“Yeh.” Clint nodded, turning to look at him. “Yeh, it would be.”


	12. Hitting Targets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The date gets postponed, but Clint is starting to relax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Canon appropriate violence, threats

They had been planning to meet for drinks next Thursday evening. Instead, Clint found himself perched on a rooftop in driving rain, his body shivering from the chill but his hands steady, Coulson's voice in his ear a constant anchor, a link to reality and a world beyond his numb fingers and aching muscles.

"The target should be here soon Barton."  
"Sir." He answered, waiting. They both knew that the target should have been here three hours ago - Clint thought that the weather had probably put the man off, and he couldn't blame him for that. But while there was still just enough light to see by, there was a chance he might arrive, and so Clint was going to remain on his post and see what happened. 

He wriggled his fingers, trying to stop them from freezing, and to keep the blood flowing. He paused, reaching a hand up to his ear, having checked there was no sign of anyone approaching, and flicking to a private channel.  
"This wasn't how I wanted to spend the evening Phil."  
"I know. Now, stay focused. The light is fading, and I want this over tonight. If not, you're going to end up here tomorrow as well. How are you holding up?"  
"I'm fine." Clint answered quickly, smiling a little at how professional Phil was, how good he was at his job. Yes, there were a lot of places he would have rather been than here, but similarly, there were a lot worse places to be. He flicked the comm back to public, returned his hand to his bow, and waited.

It was another twenty minutes before Coulson called the mission as over for the night, and he climbed down stiffly from the roof that he had been hidden on.  
"What now Coulson?" He asked once his feet were firmly back on the ground.

"You're going to the hotel, having a shower and getting some sleep. You're back in position at six tomorrow morning."

Clint groaned, but nodded, and headed back to the hotel, the promise of hot water acting as a lure, hearing Coulson explaining what had happened to the other agents and organising watches. They had all at least been kept out of the worst of the elements, unlike him. His skills demanded that he was exposed, with the best positions to take the shots. Some days, he hated that. But it meant he was valuable, so he knew he couldn't really complain. He wanted to be useful.

The hot water of the shower was a comfort to his frozen skin, even if the returning of blood to his fingers and toes almost burned. It was worth that, to feel clean and warm once more.

He dried himself, wrapping a towel around his waist and venturing back out into the main bedroom, walking over to the cabinet and picking up one of his tablets. They had finally started to work, and he was no longer tempted to take a fistful of them. One a day, to get through the worst of this, that he could do. He pulled on some clothes, and climbed into bed, setting his alarm before surrendering to exhaustion.

The blare of the alarm a few hours later dragged him back to wakefulness. He pulled on his uniform, grabbed some breakfast from the cafeteria and then took his bow and made his way to the rooftop, setting up his equipment and finding a position from which he could see the target. The wind was still strong, so strong that he would struggle to make the shots, but at least the rain had stopped for now.  
"Agent Barton, are you in position?"  
"Yes sir." He answered, smiling a little. Once this was done, he could go home and pester Phil into giving him the date that he had promised. 

He was focused on that thought, and nearly missed the soft whistling sound that signalled that the target was approaching. He snapped back to reality in less than a second, bringing the string back to his face and watching through the sight as the figure approached, and reached the door in question. It was locked, so his job was twofold - first, to shoot the man in such a way as to incapacitate him, and then (and more importantly) to find out the code - either by seeing it, or by asking in such a way that the target was convinced that he should help him.

The target reached the door, poking in a visible code number, and Clint relaxed, taking a slow breath to calm his heart rate before releasing the arrow. The target crumpled to the ground, an arrow impaled deep in his thigh, as Clint calmly recited the code to the lock into his earpiece. 

“Good work Barton.” That was Coulson’s voice, a solid reminder that he had done well, and he couldn’t fight back the smile that those words caused. He stayed in his perch, but he risked lowering the bow for a moment to wrap his jacket tighter around himself, snatching it back up once he had gained the additional protection from the elements that the thick fabric offered. Those on the ground had not needed his help in the time he had been busy, and he was ready to provide cover once more.

That cover wasn't needed though. With the code he had provided, access was easy, and it took less than half an hour for the building to have been thoroughly searched, the few people inside taken into custody, and the information that had been the point of the whole exercise to have been safely retrieved.

"You can come down now Barton." Coulson called him from the rooftop, and he climbed down, vaulting easily to the ground. 

He sat in the vehicle with the rest of the agents, not particularly close to Coulson - this was work, and whilst a couple of weeks previously he might have felt the need to try and press close, to get any contact with his handler that he could, he didn't need that right now. Instead, he could relax, looking at the other agents.

One of them was smiling at him. That smile was honest, grateful, friendly, the kind of smile he had seen exchanged between other agents hundreds of times, and right now, it was aimed at him. It took a moment for him to realise that it was Grant, one of his old friends, one who had treated him like nothing more than a whore, like he was nothing. 

Clint couldn't stop the corner of his mouth twisting into a smile in return. He didn't just let the conversation flow over him, the way that it had hundreds of times before - this time, he was participating in it. He felt a little tense, but he was still learning, finding a way to talk to them. It was a skill he would work on, but it was still a positive start.

Throughout the flight, Coulson was sat at the other end of the chopper, silent, working on a report about the mission, looking up only occasionally to glance over his men, to ensure that no one was struggling at all - it had gone well, but then you could never tell how agents would react - it was one of the risks of their jobs. Everyone that worked for SHIELD, at least in a front line capacity, had seen enough that they had mental scars. Clint smiled at Coulson when he caught his eye, and received the smallest of nods in return.

After a long and boring debrief, which achieved nothing from Clint's point of view but appeared to satisfy Coulson, they were dismissed.

Clint headed to the gym rather than the bar - he was tempted to accept the offer of drinks, but he told them he'd meet them later. That way, they'd mainly be too drunk to notice he wasn't touching alcohol.

He lost himself in the simple routines of movement, lifting weights and doing pressups, testing his fitness - too much of his job involved staying still, and he needed to ensure he was still capable of doing more than that.

"Barton." The voice behind him was cold, and he shivered as he turned to face it. He knew this one's name. Mills. Clint settled into a fighting stance, not willing to have this conversation.  
"You changed your mind about seeing me?" Mills taunted, eyes dark, and Clint felt almost dizzy, but he nodded. Mills was a hand to hand fighter, and Clint wasn’t, so this wasn’t in his favour.  
"Yeh, I did. Decided I could do better." He'd only just got the words out of his mouth when he realised that Mills had not come alone. There were two of his friends with him. Clint sighed slightly, rolling his eyes. He really wasn't going to bet on his chances against three of them, but he was willing to try - he had a date soon. He backed up slightly, trying to get into a corner. He’d try and get into the vents if he could. He jumped slightly at the sound of the door opening.

"Barton?" That question was another familiar voice, but one that it was a great deal better to hear. "Wondered why you hadn't come to the bar."  
"Was just on my way." Clint answered, looking up to smile at Grant as he walked over. He wasn't quite sure which way the fight now was stacked - if it was one against four, or two against three. Grant moved to stand beside him, and he realised it was the latter of the two options. "These idiots decided to try and stop me."

Grant smirked, and nodded.  
"Did they now?" His voice was dangerous, and Clint realised that he was smirking, before he turned his gaze to Mills, staring into his eyes, and then stepping forwards.

Mills lunged at him, but Clint dodged, grabbing his wrist and twisting it to an unnatural angle. Mills fell to the floor, and Clint landed on top of him, pinning him there, his knee jammed hard against the small of his back, breath coming in short pants. He looked up to see that Mills' friends were looking down at him. He tried to prepare himself for blows, but they never came - Grant moved to stand in front of him, protecting him. 

Before the situation could escalate, his name was spoken a third time, in a voice that made both Mills and Grant look nervous. Coulson. The handler approached, glancing over at the two on the ground and raising an eyebrow.  
"Agent Mills, I will speak to you later. Report to my office at 1800 hours. Barton, I will speak to you now. The rest of you, dismissed, and be glad I'm not asking for paperwork for this." 

Everyone scurried from the room other than Clint, who stood his ground, looking into Coulson's eyes and trying to decide whether he was in trouble.  
"What happened there agent?"  
"I decided to show him he couldn't boss me around anymore."

Coulson's lips twitched a little in amusement, and he nodded.  
"Well, that was probably sensible. Do be careful though, I would so hate to have to write you up for damaging another agent..." The humour in Coulson's voice was clear, and made Clint feel warm inside. Another nod, and Coulson relaxed back into Phil.  
"Well done Clint. I had better go and see to Agent Mills, but...I do hope that you might be free this evening?"  
"This evening I’m out with the rest of the team. But tomorrow evening I can do." Clint guaranteed with a smile. "Assuming my handler doesn't give me more work."  
"I'm fairly sure you'll be safe from that for now." Coulson answered and walked from the gym.


	13. Finding Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil and Clint finally get their date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the last chapter, and I just wanted to say a huge thank you to everyone who has been reading, following and commenting - this is the longest fic I've written in a while, and by far the best response I've ever had. I'm definitely going to be writing more soon. Thank you again, and I hope you've enjoyed it.

Coulson was as good as his word about the paperwork, and Clint spent a peaceful Saturday morning sleeping off the hangover he had achieved the night before. Mills had turned up late to the bar, and explained he'd been put on probation for a few months. He'd looked exhausted, and had clearly been in a lot of trouble, but he hadn't been kicked out of SHIELD. 

Clint was relieved about that. He didn't want people to start thinking that he was being treated specially just because he was dating Phil. He couldn't hold back a smile as he thought about that. He was dating Phil. That thought echoed around his head as he lay on the bed, dozing. The light filtering in through the curtains was too bright, and he turned away from it, glancing at his phone to check the time. It was nearly midday.

He had an unread message from Phil. He opened it, curious as to what it was that Phil had wanted to tell him. His phone had been altered now, so it had a purple background, and that made it easier to read the message - which Phil had kept mercifully short, as he so often did.  
"Clint, can you call me when you are awake so we can plan this evening? x"

Clint smiled at it, reading over the question a few times until he was absolutely certain that he had understood every word. Then he sat up, reaching over for a glass of water and using it to take a painkiller, to try and get rid of his headache. Once that was done, he called Phil, fingers tapping on the table.  
"Clint?" Phil's voice answered quickly, and Clint beamed to himself.  
"Yeh?"  
"How are you feeling?"  
"Like I got hit by a truck last night. I didn't, I just think that Grant might have bought me a few too many beers."

"Glad you had fun." Phil answered, and Clint felt warm inside, hearing the pride in his voice. "So, I wondered what it was that you wanted to do tonight..."  
"You mean other than see you?"  
"I was hoping that seeing me might be a given." That soft amusement in Phil's tone made Clint feel almost dizzy. He could remember before, when he had still thought that Phil was a heartless cold bastard. He would never think that again. The amusement in Phil’s voice might not have been obvious now, but it was there, when he had previously thought that it could never exist, and it was Clint that had brought it out.

"Oh, it's a given alright. You want some posh restaurant?" Clint offered. He would feel a little uncomfortable about it, but he was sure that he would manage to cope, and he wanted Phil to feel at ease.  
"No, I thought we could go to somewhere you'd actually like." Phil answered, instantly, calm as always. Clint laughed slightly.  
"Sounds good. There's this burger joint near the office..."  
"Perfect." Phil answered, and he didn't sound like he was judging Clint. That made the archer relax. He was beginning to think that maybe, they could actually make this work. "See you around six?"  
"Six sounds great. Thanks Phil." He ended the call, and lay back on his bed, considering a shower, before deciding that curling up under the quilt for another few hours was a much better idea.

By six, Clint was showered, had taken a tablet, and was dressed in clean and comfortable (if not particularly smart) clothes. He made his way to Phil's office, knocking and smirking slightly when the door opened to reveal the older man in the same smart clothes he wore for work.  
"Do you not own any clothing that isn't a suit?"  
"I do." Phil answered, the corner of a lip twitching a little. "I just thought I would wear this today."

Clint shrugged slightly.  
"People might recognise you."  
"That doesn't bother me Clint. I don't mind if they do." He reached out, and squeezed Clint's hand. "We're both off duty right now. We're both adults, we're both able to make up our own minds about what we do. I want to go out with you tonight, and you want to go out with me. If that's going to bother people then I-"  
Clint leaned up to kiss Phil softly, quieting him before he could say more. After a moment he pulled back, and smiled at him playfully.

"Thanks Phil."  
Phil kissed his cheek, and squeezed his hand.  
"You promised me a burger Clint."

Clint laughed, and led the way to the restaurant, smiling at the waiter as he asked for a table for two. They were shown to a booth, and he curled up against Coulson's side, talking the menu over with him and trying to decide on what to get. He wasn't sure he'd eat neatly, but that didn't feel like it mattered right then.  
After all, if Phil was going to be bothered by his eating habits, it only seemed fair he got an early warning about it.

When the food turned up, Phil grabbed his own burger, and Clint realised he wasn't going to worry about messy eating, which was a relief. He looked up at Phil and smiled slightly.  
"So..." He hesitated, his voice trailing off a little. "You sure about this? No regrets? I mean, if you change your mind, I'd totally understand."  
"I'm not about to change my mind here Clint. This is what I want, so just stop worrying and try to relax okay? We're meant to be having fun." Phil's words were accompanied by a reassuring hand on Clint's arm, and the archer felt himself relaxing.

"Yeh. Okay. You have fun last night?"  
"Not as much as you did, judging by when you woke up." Phil shot back instantly with a smile. "But it was alright. Mills is in quite a bit of trouble, so he shouldn't be bothering you again. If he tries, then let me or someone else know." 

"I can handle it." Clint answered quickly.  
"You can. But you shouldn't have to. You've got people who care about you now, and you need to learn how to use them. We're not going to ignore you if you need us Clint."  
"Yeh. I know." Clint muttered, poking at his burger. Phil squeezed his hand, and Clint relaxed slightly against him. "Thanks."  
"You're welcome. It's nothing less than you deserve."

Clint laughed, and tried to manoeuvre the conversation away from this to something simpler to talk about. Soon he was laughing at Phil's choice of television shows - on the one hand, the thought of the serious agent watching Supernanny was hilarious, but on the other, Clint could see the appeal considering what Coulson had to put up with from the younger agents. He probably wished he could just send them to the naughty step. Maybe Phil could suggest that to Fury.

Phil meanwhile had to laugh when Clint admitted liking Dog Cops, but it wasn't a nasty laugh. He just seemed amused, and Clint felt he could accept that, it definitely wasn't the most serious of shows.  
“At some point…” He told Phil, looking into his eyes. “I’m going to come to your house and we can watch crappy television.”  
“Sounds good.” Phil replied with sincerity, easily meeting Clint’s gaze.

They finished their meal, and sat together, arguing over who paid for what. Clint couldn't keep the grin from his face - this was what he had always dreamed of, what came so easily to other people, and what he had always thought was closed off to him. Phil seemed to realise what he was thinking about, leaning in to nuzzle against his ear before gently kissing his cheek once the bill was paid.  
"You want to go back now?"

Clint hesitated for a moment, thinking through his options. He could go back to his room, no one would bother him, he could sleep, and then he could see Phil again soon. That sounded good, but something else sounded better.  
"Yeh... any chance I can go back to yours?"  
Phil pulled back slightly, looking into his eyes.  
"You want to?"  
"Yeh. I know I don't have to. I'd just like to."

Phil nodded, and they walked back to the building side by side. Once they were safely within the confines of the lift, Clint squeezed Phil's hand, grinning at him. Phil leaned across to kiss him, and Clint kissed him back, opening his mouth to allow Phil's tongue access, sucking slightly on it. Phil gasped, his hands finding Clint's hips, and when the doors opened to let them into Phil's room, Phil had to push Clint away to find his access card. 

He opened the door, and then they were both inside, hands running over each other's shirts, muttering quickly as they sought contact. Clint fumbled with the buttons of Phil's jacket, and the older man pushed him back for a moment, removing his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt, before letting Clint get closer, the touches continuing. Phil helped Clint out of his t-shirt, and ran his hands over the expanse of scarred flesh, fingertips tracing over the lines that marred his skin.

"Hey..." Clint muttered, taking a momentary break from nibbling on Phil's lip. "Bedroom?" He started to pull on Phil's hand, but Phil stood his ground.  
"Clint, you don't have to do this."  
"Yeh, I know..." Clint squeezed his hand again.

"I mean it. We can stop, you can borrow the sofa, you can even sleep in my bed if you want, and I won't desert you."  
"I know. Phil. I get that. I just actually...want to do this with you. No hidden motives, no evil plans. I just want to. As long as you-"  
"Yes." Phil's hand tightened his grip, and he headed to the bedroom, other hand tracing down Clint's spine as his mouth busied itself at Clint's neck. "Yes, I want to."

"Good..." Clint kissed him again, his hands undoing Phil's trousers, pushing them down. Once they were pooled around his ankles, Phil realised that he couldn't remove them without first taking off his shoes. Laughing, he guided Clint down onto the bed, and removed his own shoes and socks, stepping out of his trousers, and then crouching to help Clint out of his battered trainers, fingers skimming over an ankle.

Clint bent down for another kiss, and once his trainers were removed he pulled Phil up onto the bed with him, squirming out of his trousers, leaving them both wearing only boxers. They kissed as they fell back, hands learning each other’s bodies, legs tangling with each other.

“Want you.” Clint muttered against Coulson’s lips, running his hand along the waist of Coulson’s boxers. Coulson nodded, kissing at Clint’s neck as he slid Clint’s boxers down, one hand running the length of his erection before he removed his own underwear, laying over Clint again and rocking against him as he held him close.

Clint kissed him, then pulled away to smirk down at him, rolling them over. He supported his weight with one arm, slipping the other hand between them to wrap around their cocks, nuzzling and nipping at Phil’s neck as he stroked them in time. 

Phil let out a soft groan, and Clint repeated the gesture, wanting to gain more of those noises, rocking his hips against Phil’s own. He sped up, movements becoming more erratic, moaning out Phil’s name in time with jerks of his hips, crying out.

“Clint!” Phil finished a moment before Clint, and Clint flopped forwards against him, kissing him tenderly as he climaxed as well. He clung to Phil, not wanting to let him go, but moving aside after a second when he felt Phil trying to move from beneath him. He blinked slightly, trying not to let the pain show on his face, and stared up at the ceiling. Of course Coulson had other places to be, work to do…

Those thoughts began to sting, but before he could lose himself to them, he was pulled back into Phil’s arms, as the handler carefully wiped his stomach clean with a tissue. He pulled Clint against his chest.

“You okay?”  
“Yeh, you?”  
“I’m fine Clint…” Phil’s arms tightened around him.

Clint curled up against him, and let himself fall asleep, feeling calmer than before. He woke early the next morning, awaiting the blare of Phil’s alarm, knowing that he tended to be in at work by eight, that the fact it was a Sunday would make little difference. He lay in Phil’s arms, feeling his breath against his ear, and trying not to think about what would happen when Phil left. Right now, he was warm, and held, and safe. He couldn’t ask for more. Soon, the phone would ring, and they would have to carry on with their lives, but for now they had this.

“Clint?” The voice in his ear sounded almost sleepy, and he realised that Phil wasn’t fully awake yet. “You can relax… you’re all tense…” Strong hands ran over Clint’s arms, and he felt the tension sliding from him.

“Sorry Phil… you need to go to work huh?”  
“No.” Phil nuzzled the back of his neck. “Not today. I took today off, we can stay here for as long as you want, and then we can have dinner…”  
Clint nodded, not trusting himself to speak immediately. He curled up against Coulson, and closed his eyes.  
“Thank you…”  
“You don’t have to thank me Clint. You are amazing… Can’t think of any way I’d rather spend the day than with you.” Phil’s fingers stroked through Clint’s hair, and the archer began to relax. He was warm here, safe, and nothing was going to go badly, not today. He turned to face Phil, resting his head on his shoulder, and closing his eyes. This was what he had been searching for. He let that thought linger for a few moments, before leaning up for a lazy kiss.


End file.
